


The Winner Takes It All

by LeapAngstily



Series: Glitches in the Reality [4]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Language, Filippo Inzaghi/Christian Vieri (mentioned), Golden Era AC Milan, Infidelity, M/M, Open Marriage, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Pirlo's foul language is very infectious, Riccardo Montolivo/Andrea Pirlo (implied), Sexual Content, Shameless references to Pirlo's book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 21:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: The system doesn’t create soulmates. The system doesn’t create perfect marriages or happy people. The system is a game. And you can’t win a game unless you know you’re playing. Andrea and Pippo— well, they’ve always played to win.(Prequel to the Memo/Monto stories, can also be read as a standalone.)





	The Winner Takes It All

 

 

 

 

Andrea’s never had any illusions about the System. He never bought into the talk about soulmates or perfect matches, because he never had any reason to believe in either of those.

Take his parents, for example: outwardly a textbook example of the first generation where all couples were matched up by the algorithm, but Andrea’s known as long as he can remember that there’s no love lost in his parents’ marriage.

It doesn’t mean his childhood was unhappy one, of course; like everyone else matched up by the System, his parents found a way to make things work, and used the financially beneficial match to their advantage, using their money and connections to launch an extensive business enterprise that by the time Andrea was born had already spread across Northern Italy.

The Pirlo children never lacked in anything and, therefore, were allowed to pursue their own interests from early age, which is how Andrea, one of the three heirs to the family business, ended up becoming a professional footballer instead.

And, after having been recognized as one of the most promising football talents of his generation, he quickly found himself in the centre of attention, being asked questions about the System and soulmates, like they had anything to do with his career.

He was maybe 15 years of age when he first realized what the System really was: a game. They were all just tiny elaborate pieces in a huge complicated game that was being played by the people above them.

The scientists who first came up with the algorithm maybe had had good intentions in mind –  match up couples with the best possible compatibility to ensure long-lasting marriages and steady society – but in practice it had become a tool for the ruling parties to control and monitor people, especially those with more radical ideas, stopping them from finding each other and banding up together to fight the System.

Once Andrea knew what he was up against, it became easy enough to find and expose the loopholes in the System. You can play the game only if you know the rules. But the game is rigged, so you can _win_ only if you learn to go around those rules. As a professional athlete, Andrea is always looking for a win.

It was also among the professional athletes that he built his strongest alliances against the rigged system. There is power in numbers – even more so when you do it under the radar, seemingly following the rules, all the while finding the people who think like you, who are ready to fuck up the System. Create your own rules and silently pass them on to the next generation, and maybe, hopefully, this ridiculous machine can be pulled down once the scales tip over.

Andrea is nothing if not patient, and he’s ready, he’s in it for the long game.

 

§§§

 

Andrea is barely of age when he first hooks up with Pippo Inzaghi – the newly transferred Juventus star – in one of the old supply closets in the Brescia home stadium. It all happens in the spur of a moment, excess adrenaline from the earlier match coursing through their veins, chapped lips pressed against each other and coarse hands in each other’s pants.

It’s not unheard of, unmatched youngsters casually hooking up in the early years before being tied up with their ‘perfect match’. It’s not against the rules, either, although it is frowned upon by the conservative majority who believe everyone should just sit tight and wait for the marriage with their ideal companion. Andrea’s own parents have told him as much, warned him off premarital attachments, because it’s only asking for trouble when his actual match comes along.

But Andrea is a rebellious teenager with teenage hormones, and Pippo is a huge man slut who’s rumoured to have slept with half of the city of Turin since his transfer mere months ago, men and women alike. Andrea doesn’t bother asking about those rumours when he has Pippo’s tongue in his mouth, because all he cares about is that Pippo is hot, experienced, and available.

Pippo ruffles his hair and calls him kid afterwards, and Andrea fires back by reminding Pippo he is the one sleeping with a kid. Pippo only smiles and tells him it’s because he’s easy.

There’s no time to get attached, because they play for different clubs and Andrea is yet to make his Azzurri debut. But they do get together a few times afterward as well, because Pippo really is easy and Andrea is a fast learner.

Once or twice Andrea might stop to wonder why Pippo is still unmarried, since usually people are matched up and married off by their early twenties – probably a conscious measure to avoid those pestering extra-marital attachments from happening and fucking up a perfectly functional system.

He never asks and Pippo never shares.

They get their answer in the spring of 2001 after the Serie A season comes to an end, when both of them get phone calls from their agents and are invited to the Lega Serie A headquarters in Milan.

Andrea is 22 at the time – perfect marrying age – Pippo almost 28.

If either of them believed in the bullshit about the System being completely automated and politically independent, this would have been the moment when they were proven wrong. As things stand, neither of them is even remotely surprised that their agents, clubs, and the fucking government know about them being matched before either of them has even received their letters.

It’s a fall-back system that flags all high-profile or potentially controversial matches that might require pre-emptive media strategy, the official representative of the government explains to them, beaming at them in a fatherly fashion like it’s the best day of their lives.

Given, as far as matches go, Andrea knows he could’ve done much worse. In his never-ending pursuit of passive-aggressively fighting the System, he never stopped to consider what would happen once he actually got matched with someone. Now, it seems the algorithm has given him a perfect escape – a match that despises the system as much as he does, someone he can trust having in his corner.

“Well, fuck,” Andrea says helpfully when they’re finally out on the street again. The people are walking past them without sparing them a second glance, blissfully unaware both their lives have just been turned upside down.

“Agreed,” Pippo replies dryly.

There’s a ghost of Pippo’s trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Andrea kind of really wants to kiss him. But not out in the open, not when they just agreed their match will be kept secret for the time being, until their agents can come up with a proper plan.

“Wanna come to mine and fuck?” Andrea suggests with a shrug, like talking about the weather.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

 

§§§

 

There’s a plan afoot.

That plan includes Andrea transferring from Inter to their city rivals, because Pippo’s transfer to Milan was already finalized before they got called to the headquarters and managing the media attention is supposedly much easier if they’re both in the same club.

Officially, it’s just a regular transfer between two clubs, as they’re still keeping the news about their match under the wraps. Neither of them has even received their letters yet – the government is purposefully holding them back to give them more time to execute the plan, in order to get the best of the inevitable media attention their marriage will pull.

They’re not the first couple to be matched within the football community, not even within Italian football, but they are the first ones who are playing in the top league, not to mention the national team (or the junior one, in Andrea’s case, his call up for the Azzurri still waiting to happen).

It’s not much of a surprise, then, that the government, the Lega, and Berlusconi’s AC Milan are all ready to bounce at the opportunity and make them the poster boys of the damn system. Pippo and Andrea’s own happiness really comes up only as an afterthought.

It is only at Milan that Andrea actually gets to know his future spouse. They’ve never been friends, really, just acquaintances and occasional fuckbuddies at best. Andrea always chalked it up to the age difference, but there’s also the fact that they’re two very different people to begin with.

It’s surprisingly easy to slot into the Milan first team from the start, even though Andrea doesn’t know anyone when he gets there, while Pippo knows everyone and their mother, having played for years against and alongside their new teammates. Unsurprisingly, Pippo doesn’t go out of his way to introduce Andrea either; instead, he lets Andrea’s football skills and dry humour win over the rest of the team on their own.

They don’t share a room, as the Milanello dorms are divided according to seniority and, occasionally, according to contractual details, which means Pippo gets his own room from the get-go, just because he happens to be one of the marquee signings of the season.

“It’s also because they want to make a huge deal out of moving you into my room once the news hit the papers,” Pippo comments with a smirk when Andrea complains about his roommate for the umpteenth time that day. He’s sprawled on his wide bed, shirt riding up, revealing his flat belly, an open packet of Plasmons lying next to him on the crumbled sheets, while Andrea sits on the floor next to the bed playing FIFA on single player mode. Pippo doesn’t play himself, but he did get the console for Andrea’s benefit as soon as they transferred to Milan.

They didn’t use to spend time together like this before. Their chance encounters were always more of the physical sort, and Andrea never thought he’d have a reason to find out more about this oddball of a man. But it’s been fascinating, to get to know the man behind the pretty face and quirky behaviour.

He was surprised when he first found out about Pippo’s friends-with-benefits arrangement with Andrea’s old teammate from his Inter days, Bobo Vieri, not to a small part because Bobo has been matched and married and apparently happy as long as Andrea has known him.

“You don’t need to be monogamous for your marriage to be happy,” Pippo had reminded him with a raised eyebrow when Andrea had expressed his surprise out loud. “Besides, what else are we supposed to do when we’re forced to marry people we barely know by a system that knows nothing about us?”

Pippo knows the game too, inside out. He knows the risks of fucking a married person and breaking the marital vows much more intimately than Andrea’s ever had a chance to. He knows how to avoid getting caught, too, despite sometimes appearing like the most unsubtle person in the universe.

“We can do whatever we want,” Pippo tells Andrea as he pulls him up to the bed with him, the Playstation controller falling to the floor with a loud rattle. Andrea offers no protest, only climbs into Pippo’s lap with knees settled on both sides of his thighs. Pippo is so skinny, just skin and bone and firm muscle everywhere he touches. “As long as we’re on the same side, they can’t do anything about it. We need to have each other’s backs. That’s our one advantage.”

“It’s our game now,” Andrea agrees and leans in to brush their lips together.

Andrea has never been in love before, and with his parents’ business-like marriage, he’s never had a proper point of reference either, but he thinks he might be falling in love with Pippo, just a little bit.

It’s not like one of those great love stories that are force-fed to them from an early age. Andrea has never believed in those. It’s just that warm feeling spreading inside his chest whenever he realizes that Pippo _gets_ him – that this inarguably strange and very possibly insane man is looking at the world and seeing exactly what Andrea is seeing.

He might not believe in soulmates, but he definitely feels like he’s found a kindred spirit in Pippo.

He doesn’t say any of this aloud, though, because they don’t even know each other. Not yet.

At least now they both know that they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

 

§§§

 

The news break two days after their letters finally arrive, good three months after they first found out they were going to be matched together. Turns out the officials had a good reason to hold back the information as long as they could, because as soon as the letters are out, the media is all over them, leaks from high places ensuring all the details of their match are publicized within the first week of the scoop.

There’re few individual voices asking the hard questions – is the system right for matching up people with 6 years of age gap, the gap in their life experience possibly even wider? – but those voices are quietly and effectively silenced before anyone has a chance to demand actual explanations.

That still leaves them with masses of headline-hungry reporters behind Milanello’s gates, itching to find out more about the new sweethearts of Serie A, or to at least catch a snapshot of them together on the training grounds.

Andrea and Pippo follow a carefully crafted script, designed to convince everyone they only found out about their match when the letters arrived. There’s a select few who knew in advance – there’s Captain Maldini, obviously, and President Berlusconi and Coach Terim, as well as Bobo and Pippo’s brother Simone among the people playing for rivalling teams.

Neither of them told their parents before the letters arrived – Andrea because he’s never really talked to his parents about things like marriage in the first place, while Pippo was simply afraid his ecstatic mother would let the news slip before it was made official.

The first day at training after everyone finds out is kind of tragicomic, with teammates patting their backs in congratulations and wondering loudly how it is even possible they just happened to transfer to the same club right before their letters arrived.

“I mean, it makes me think soulmates might actually be real, you know?”

Pippo is sniggering at Billy’s exclamations and wraps an arm casually around Andrea’s shoulders and leans down to whisper into his ear, “If only they knew.”

Gattuso, who just happens to be rooming next door to Pippo, exclaims he wants to switch rooms if Andrea moves in, because he refuses “to listen those two fuckers go at it like rabbits every fucking night.” He offers a wolfish grin at Andrea and Pippo, though, to reveal their previous trysts haven’t gone unnoticed by him either. Andrea pokes his tongue out at him in a rare show of maturity and ducks out from under Pippo’s arm to poke fun at Rino instead.

“He gonna share his Plasmons with you now?” Rino asks when Pippo is out of earshot.

“Never, God forbit he even lets me into the same room with those damn biscuits, that shithead.” Andrea laughs and catches Rino into a headlock, only to be thrown down to the ground by the stronger man. They’re both laughing, though, which means he’s probably relatively safe from Rino’s wrath for now.

“But it’s a good match, innit?” Rino asks when they’re done with the impromptu wrestling match, both sitting down on the wet grass, white training jerseys decorated with grass stains. It was raining the previous night. “I mean, you’re both huge fuckers. But there ain’t nobody who’d put up with your shit better than Pippo.”

“Watch out for that double negative,” Andrea comments impishly, and Rino tackles him back to the ground with an annoyed growl.

Andrea and Pippo are pulled aside for a few select interviews after practice. It’s all nice and easy, questions and answers planned well in advance and practiced to perfection. There are secret smiles and semi-casual touches, just enough to give an impression they’re still trying to find their footing in all of this, but still ready to work for a successful marriage together.

“And I mean, what’re the chances?” Pippo is shamelessly quoting Billy’s earlier words. “We barely knew each other before this summer, and now we’re here together, teammates and fiancés all of a sudden. It makes me wanna believe soulmates are real.”

Andrea laughs good-naturedly and punches Pippo’s shoulder gently. Pippo meets his eyes momentarily, corners of his eyes wrinkling with laughter, and there’s so much warmth in there that Andrea is left wondering how much of it is for the benefit of the cameras.

“Obviously, being 6 years older, I feel a certain amount of responsibility to take care of Andrea.” Pippo is back on script and Andrea can focus on the interview again. “But hey, we’re both adults. We’re all equal here. I’m well aware Andrea is more than capable of taking care of himself, so I might as well enjoy his company instead of worrying over him.”

“And it’s not like I’d ever let him forget that,” Andrea quips with a crooked grin and pumps their shoulders together as if by accident, taking his turn in the spotlight. “I remember this one time we’d just transferred here, before the season began, and he called me a kid. I made sure he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Whatever you say, kiddo.” Pippo ruffles his hair in obviously joking manner. An easy joke for the audiences curious about the age gap, without too many connotations or innuendoes. Andrea rolls his eyes at the reporter in fake exasperation.

It’s actually been years since Pippo last called him a kid and meant it. Not since that first time, to be exact. It’s not a fitting joke anymore, when Andrea’s had Pippo’s dick inside him on a semi-regular basis long before they found out about being matched. Andrea momentarily entertains the idea of telling this to the cameras, just for the laughs, but in the end, he just smiles up at Pippo adoringly and lets the reporters come to their own – very wrong – conclusions.

The next day, all papers are full of photos of them, decorated with pink hearts and the cheesiest quotes from their interviews.

Pippo hangs one of the full-page tabloid headlines on the door of his Milanello room – outside, for everyone to see – the large letters proudly exclaiming: _“Andrea Made Me Believe in Soulmates!”_

 

§§§

 

“Have you ever been in love?” Andrea asks one night when they’re lying awake in Pippo’s bed, for once in his apartment in downtown Milan rather than in Milanello. Andrea finds himself almost missing Rino’s familiar snoring that always invades these silent moments.

They had spent the day in Piacenza visiting Pippo’s family, and Andrea had been blown away by the overflowing amount of unadulterated love he had been faced with. Marina Inzaghi is a force to be reckoned with, with the amount of affection she showers both her sons, as well as her husband, Simone’s pregnant wife, and the newest addition to the family, Andrea.

Having finally met her, it made Andrea wonder where she had gone wrong with Pippo, whose approach to relationships and marriage bears no resemblance whatsoever to his family dynamics. If Andrea’s being honest, he might even go as far as admit he had been expecting a family more like his own: a marriage of convenience with no overt displays of affection.

“I’m not sure,” Pippo answers after a moment of consideration, his face scrunched up with concentration, as if Andrea just presented him a particularly difficult puzzle. “I don’t think so? How’d you even recognize something like that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Andrea huffs out with a laugh that’s half-relieved, half-incredulous. “Was hoping you’d know more about it, given your family seems awfully open about it.” He turns to lie on his stomach, one side of his face resting on the plush pillow so he can still face Pippo, the streetlights shining through the bedroom curtains illuminating his face. “Not even once? Really? Not even Bobo?”

“I told you I wasn’t sure.” Pippo chuckles and lifts his hand lazily to comb his fingers through Andrea’s hair. “The thing with Bobo, though— that’s different. I’ve known Bobo practically my entire life. I love him, but I’ve never been _in love_ with him.”

Andrea doesn’t think he’s ever loved anyone outside of his immediate family, not even his closest friends, so he can’t say he gets what Pippo is saying. Maybe it’s a matter of definition.

Pippo is still stroking his hair, although his eyes are half-closed, like he is more than ready to fall asleep. “What about you, Andrea? Anything you wanna tell me?”

There are many things Andrea wants to tell Pippo, but they all feel like too much trouble for this calm evening. The funny thing is, he feels like he could tell Pippo anything and he wouldn’t need to worry about his reactions – it’s nothing about Pippo that makes him hesitate, it’s all on Andrea.

“I was thinking,” he starts quietly, leaning in and dropping a kiss on Pippo’s bare collarbone, “that next time you should come over to my parents’ vineyard. I could cook you something, and then we could steal a bottle of vintage wine from my dad’s personal collection.”

Back at his childhood home, Pippo had eaten every single dish carried in front of him without a complaint, proving to Andrea once and for all that his peculiar eating habits have nothing do with being picky. This, in turn, has made him more determined than ever to eradicate the plain-pasta-and-Plasmons diet from existence. Andrea loves good food and wine, and he’s not about to marry someone who flat out refuses such delights in life.

“I guess I owe it to you, after you so splendidly put up with my mom’s fussing for the whole day,” Pippo hums his agreement and then tugs on Andrea’s hair to pull him in for a quick kiss. “Can you even cook, though?”

“You’ll have to wait and see, don’t you?” Andrea smirks into the kiss, teasing tone slipping into his voice. After watching Pippo’s daily eating habits, Andrea is more than certain that anything he can come up with will be better than what his fiancé is used to.

Pippo laughs and punches Andrea’s shoulder gently to get him out of his personal space. “Move, I gotta take a shit.”

Andrea groans and rolls over to lie on his back again as Pippo climbs out of bed, leaving the bed far too cold all of a sudden. They don’t sleep in the same bed every night – Pippo has Bobo and God knows how many other side pieces for that, while Andrea prefers his privacy over random hook-ups (that still do happen, occasionally) – but when they do, Andrea has found himself welcoming the warmth of Pippo’s body with open arms.

“Hey Andrea,” Pippo says from the bathroom door, leaning on the doorframe, only his silhouette visible with the light shining from behind him, “if I ever were to fall in love with someone, I think it’s gonna be you.” He closes the door before Andrea has a chance to form a coherent response.

“Shithead,” Andrea mumbles and pulls the covers tighter around his body, not leaving any for Pippo when he comes back. He is fully aware that his tone is too soft for the coarse word, more fitting for a pet name than an insult.

 

§§§

 

No expenses are saved when the wedding rolls around, the Berlusconi family piping in to sponsor the whole event even though Andrea knows his family – of even Pippo and himself – could have funded the ridiculous extravaganza just fine.

It’s all planned to the last detail – from the white tuxedos that don’t flatter either of them to the flower arrangements (all whites and Azzurri blues) and prewritten wedding vows that neither of them could influence in the least.

“You look ridiculous,” Pippo tells Andrea helpfully as they meet up behind the doors to the ceremony hall. He takes Andrea’s hand into his own and squeezes it reassuringly. Pippo’s fingers are so long, they make Andrea’s hands look tiny by comparison. Andrea’s never felt self-conscious about things like that before, but suddenly it feels like the most important thing he could focus on.

Fixating on tiny details, isn’t that more of a Pippo coping mechanism?

“Did you happen to look at the mirror, wanker?” There, sarcasm and insults, now he’s feeling more like himself again. “Why the fuck did we agree to this theatre in the first place?”

“I don’t remember them giving us much of a choice.” Pippo pushes a lock of hair back from Andrea’s forehead right before it falls over his eyes. His fingers linger in Andrea’s hair for a while too long, making it obvious he wants to say something before they need to get going. It seems neither of them is ready to face the press or the hundreds of guests, most of whom they don’t even know.

“Makes me feel like fucking royalty,” Andrea comments dryly when the flower girls and boys are ushered into the ceremony hall ahead of them. It’s ridiculous, whoever thought a massive wedding like this was a good idea obviously knew nothing about Andrea or Pippo.

Then again, it’s not like this wedding is for their sake. It’s for the System and for Berlusconi’s media machinery. They’re just innocent victims of the fucking System, just like always.

“Just so you know,” Pippo finally speaks up when their signal to walk in goes up, “if it was up to me, I would’ve probably still chosen you. I just wanted you to know that.”

Andrea has no chance to return he sentiments – and he does, even if it’s fucking embarrassing to admit it – as they are led through the open doors and into the flashing of cameras and the deafening boom of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. (Not their choice either, that one.)

The whole ceremony is a bit of a blur after that. Andrea thinks he probably forgot to read a whole paragraph in his vows, but it doesn’t really matter because they’re not _his_ vows to begin with. There’s so much he’d like to tell Pippo, to promise him, but this is not the time or place to do it. He hates every minute of the ceremony with passion, hates every generic word spoken by the minister and hates every promise written in his and Pippo’s vows.

The only thing he doesn’t hate about the whole thing is that it’s Pippo suffering through it with him. Andrea makes a silent vow this will be the last time they do anything because someone else told them to – this is _their_ marriage, it doesn’t belong to the System or the press or fucking Berlusconi – and they will make it reflect who they are, turn it into their victory.

When it’s finally over and they get a permission to kiss the groom – like Andrea needs a permission, he’s been kissing Pippo since he was 18 – Andrea takes his chance to pull Pippo into a dirty, open-mouthed kiss that is far from the PG rated peck on the lips written in the wedding script. He’s done following the script, now it’s time to show to the press what their marriage is really about.

“I love you.” The words are spoken against Pippo’s lips before he pulls back, meant just for the two of them. It’s the first time Andrea has said it out loud, but unexpectedly it feels like the right time – because he needs to have something in this farce of a wedding that belongs only to the two of them. Pippo’s wordless smile speaks his understanding louder than any vows ever could.

Andrea can’t wait to take his newly wedded husband to bed tonight, if only because it will mean they’ll have survived the upcoming reception and will be free to act like themselves again.

 

§§§

 

Once the fuss over the wedding and the ensuing media madness finally dies down, being married doesn’t really feel much different from their earlier lives.

They’ve moved into a new house a little off the city of Milan towards Carnago, not too far away from Milanello – three bedrooms, one for their shared king size bed and two others for the nights when they don’t feel like sharing (or when one of them has a visitor, more likely). Pippo is still seeing Bobo on occasion, and Andrea has brought a few friends of his own over to visit their new home.

They’re still not sharing a room in Milanello. It’s partly because their new coach, Ancelotti, made it clear from the get-go that he’s not going to allow sex on the premises – a lost cause, everyone knows, but at least he’s trying to keep up the appearances for the time being – partly because Andrea simply refuses to take part in Pippo’s ridiculous pre-match rituals, be it re-watching videos of the opponents for hours to an end, or jealously guarding the fucking Plasmons with his very life.

New season comes around, bringing along a new roommate for Andrea in the form of one Alessandro Nesta. Sandro proves to be a great distraction from Pippo’s crazy, giving him an option to stay in and play FIFA whenever his husband’s special brand of insanity starts getting too much for him.

“And you’re sure he’s not jealous?” Sandro asks once when Andrea blows off Pippo in favour of his Playstation, lying on his bed wearing only his boxers and beating Sandro’s Barça with his own version of the same team.

“We’re married, we see each other aplenty at home,” Andrea shrugs and scores another goal past Sandro’s keeper. “Trust me, if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Sandro hums out a sound that betrays his scepticism. “And that doesn’t bother you? I mean, I know I wish I could spend every waking minute with Gabriela instead of beating your sorry ass on this stupid game.”

“Do not disrespect FIFA!” Andrea protests with a laugh, throwing his controller at Sandro’s head just as the match comes to an end.

He rolls over to lie on his side, facing Sandro. He’s not used to talking about his marriage with anyone else but Pippo, but Sandro’s become one of his best friends from the moment he walked into Milanello. Maybe Sandro could understand. “I don’t know, he’s never been the jealous type. And neither am I, for that matter – otherwise it’d drive me crazy just to think about all the stuff that was going on with him before I met him.”

Sandro doesn’t say anything, only raises an amused eyebrow at the comment of Pippo’s past discretions. Everyone knows Pippo used to be the village bicycle, even if only a select few know it’s far from a thing of the past. Andrea can’t help but admire how well Pippo’s learned to hide it even from the people closest to him.

“We don’t need those over-the-top displays of affection. We don’t need to spend all our time together – no one can handle Pippo’s crazy 24/7, trust me. In the end, it’s enough for me to know he’s gonna be there when I need him. And he knows it too.” Andrea’s tone has dropped down a notch, more contemplative now. “Did you know we chose each other long before the System did? I guess that’s why I’m not worried. Because he chose me over all the others when he didn’t have to.”

“I see.” Sandro is nodding now, like finally understanding, before he grins impishly. “So, the talk about you being soulmates is not just a joke, then?”

Andrea picks up his pillow and throws it at Sandro’s head, because he can’t reach his controller anymore.

There’s a soft knock on the door and then Pippo walks in without waiting for answer, carrying his own pillow under one arm and a packet of Plasmons under the other. He offers no explanation, only plops down on Andrea’s bed and curls up next to him, shifting against his side until he can find a comfortable position to snuggle him. He closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh. The packet of Plasmons is cocooned in his arms, pressed against Andrea’s side.

“Missed me?” Andrea asks, amused.

“Rino’s snoring,” Pippo answers without opening his eyes. It’s not really an explanation, since Rino snores every night and it usually doesn’t bother Pippo in the least. Andrea buys the excuse without complaint, though.

“Can I have one of your Plasmons, _husband_?” Andrea asks instead, shooting a pointed look at Sandro who’s obviously holding back a teasing comment. “Isn’t marriage about sharing everything we have?” He knows the answer before Pippo says anything, because those last two Plasmons are _sacred_.

“Fuck off, don’t go messing with the star alignments.”

Sandro bursts out laughing, Andrea not far behind. Pippo doesn’t shift from his position, only moves his head just enough to drop a kiss on Andrea’s bare shoulder. “Love you too, shithead.”

Andrea can’t help but adore how his trademark insults have found their way into Pippo’s vocabulary so easily. As long as Marina Inzaghi doesn’t find out about it and hunt Andrea’s sorry ass down, of course.

 

§§§

 

There are times when Andrea is grateful to the system for matching him up with Pippo.

Pippo is batshit crazy – just like every other star striker, apparently – but as long as Andrea has known him, he’s at least made things interesting. They work well together, in a way Andrea has never experienced with anyone else, not even his best friends or family.

They can claim that they chose each other all they want, but the fact is, the chances of them ending up together would have been extremely slim was it not for the System.

Without the System, Andrea’s view on marriage and love would’ve most likely been on much healthier grounds to begin with, and he may have ended up marrying someone else long before he really got to know Pippo. Not to mention same-sex marriages became widely accepted only after the System was implemented and there was no option for the religious conservatives but to accept the inevitable.

So, while Andrea is not willing to give all the credit to the twisted system he still despises with all his being, he has come to admit that it might have been the final straw that gave them a push in the right direction. Although if the system administrators knew how their marriage really worked, the may have disagreed with the ‘right’ part.

“You ever think what’s gonna happen to us if they figure it out?” Andrea asks Pippo in the middle of the night after the Champions League final in Manchester, when they finally settle for the night in their hotel room. They’re both drunk: on victory, on expensive champagne, and on cheap beer.

They had kissed in the Old Trafford when Sheva scored the winning penalty, open-mouthed and dirty and very, _very_ public. They did it because they could – they’ve long since abandoned the classy approach the club, Berlusconi (what a joke, that one, really), or their agents ask of them, because if the system wants them married, they’re going to give it the best show they can offer – and the press had eaten the bait, line and hook.

They’re gonna be on all the frontpages of European tabloids come morning.

“Figure out what?” Pippo asks, a long arm wrapping around Andrea’s waist and pulling him closer. “That you’ve got the hottest husband in all of the System?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, fruitcake.” Andrea rolls to his side so he can wrap his own arms around Pippo’s neck, fingers threading through his black hair. Pippo smiles at him lazily, the expression just about visible in the dark hotel room. Andrea covers the smile with his mouth, kissing the non-existent protests right off Pippo’s lips. “You know what I meant. Wanker”

Pippo doesn’t let Andrea pull away, following the sloppy kiss with another one. Andrea can still taste the bland beer on his tongue, and a part of him wants to tell him go and brush his teeth, while the other, stronger part just wants to follow Pippo’s lead and fuck their way into the next day. They’re the Champions, they’ve earned it.

“They’re not gonna figure out shit,” Pippo tells him, lips brushing Andrea’s with every word, “because they’re too busy patting themselves in the back for ruining everyone’s lives.”

“Did I ruin yours?” Andrea realizes only when the words are out that he’s actually curious, in that sickly masochistic way that keeps killing cats.

“Fuck no, you’re the only thing making it bearable.” Pippo kisses him again and then rolls to his back, the momentum forcing Andrea to follow suit so that he ends up straddling Pippo’s thighs.

“I love you, Andrea,” Pippo whispers against Andrea’s lips – although considering his drunken state, the whisper might be too loud to be considered one – his palms settling on both sides of Andrea’s hips, fingers dipping under the waistband of his boxers. “I love you like crazy, but I also know for a fact that I don’t want my nephews or nieces or – God forbid – our own kids to ever go through what we have.”

Andrea knows for a fact Pippo is drunk, because he would never talk this openly while sober. Also, because he counted the drinks his husband ingested during their celebrations, even if he can’t remember the exact number anymore due to his own drinking.

“You think we’re ever gonna be ready to raise an actual fucking kid in this shithole of a world?”

“I know I won’t. I mean, just look at me! You’d make a great dad, though.”

Andrea pokes Pippo’s cheek with his finger, because _hello_ , they’re in this together and Andrea’s not gonna raise any children on his own, thank you very much. “So, it’s agreed then, no kids before we’ve overthrown the fucking System.”

“Did I tell you that I love you already?” Pippo looks like he’s honestly struggling to remember what he said just moments ago. They probably should’ve waited until the morning to have this conversation.

Pippo’s both hands are inside Andrea’s boxers now. Andrea is around 99 percent sure they’re too drunk to get off tonight, but his cock seems to be disagreeing with him, rapidly hardening, trapped between their bodies. Pippo bucks his own hips up to meet the pressure, groaning softly.

Someone might think an open relationship – even as regulated and well-hidden as theirs – would mean they’re incapable of satisfying each other’s needs. In fact, it’s the other way around: for them, sex has never become the duty it seems to be for many married couples, even the ones who against all odds do love each other.

“Too many clothes,” Pippo grumbles, wriggling under Andrea to get out of his briefs.

“We’re only wearing our underwear,” Andrea reminds him with a chuckle.

“My point exactly.”

It’s a real struggle, getting out of their underwear while drunk, especially with both of them refusing to put any distance between their bodies, but they do manage, years of practice coming in handy.

“That’s much better.” Pippo laughs triumphantly and kisses Andrea again, their cocks now pressed together with no interfering garments. “All that serious talk made me horny.”

“Can you just _shut up_ already, you wanker?” Andrea groans against his lips as he bucks his hips against Pippo’s in attempt to get more friction. One of Pippo’s hands in between them, long fingers wrapped around them both. The alcohol is slowing them down, like putting a stopper on the arousal even though at the same time they’re both practically trembling, just waiting to get off.

“Whatever you say, shithead.” The insult sounds like the sweetest of pet names from Pippo’s lips. Andrea can work with that.

“I love you,” Andrea breathes out the words against Pippo’s lips with each new jerk of his hips, over and over again, like a mantra. It takes a long time – almost so long that he gives up on even getting off tonight – until finally the release washes over him, pulling the last threads of energy out of his body and into the tangled sheets they will use to clean up after them. Pippo follows not far behind, like a clockwork.

“Let’s fuck them up,” Andrea whispers when they’re both back under the covers, Pippo’s steady breathing telling Andrea he’s already asleep. “They won’t know what hit them.”

Pippo hums out his agreement, even in his sleep.

 

§§§

 

(The new _Gazzetta dello Sport_ reporter is fascinating.

He’s witty and sarcastic, with a brilliant but utterly fake smile and a lingering sadness that cannot be hidden even when he puts on his best professional face. He’s young and unmarried, and he carries so much contempt for the System that Andrea believes he can see his own young self in him.

“You should invite him over for dinner.” It’s Pippo who tells him to go for it. “Fuck, Andrea, we’ve been married for almost 7 years and I’ve never seen you this infatuated with anyone.”

Pippo can read him far too well for it to be healthy.

Andrea picks up his phone and dials the number, hastily scribbled on the blank side of a business card.)

 

 

 

 


End file.
